The politics of Osborne's public sector job cull

Why the Tories believe that cutting public sector jobs will help them win.

Few noticed it but buried deep in the Office for Budget Responsibility’s latest set of forecasts was the revelation that another 20,000 government jobs will be cut by 2017, bringing the total to 730,000.

It’s often said that George Osborne’s cuts have barely begun but that doesn’t apply to to public sector employment. Since Osborne entered the Treasury, 350,000 government jobs have been scrapped, with another 460,000 due to go by 2017 [the 730,000 figure refers to cuts from 2011-2017]. The public sector workforce is now at its smallest level since 2003 [see graph]. In the words of the usually restrained Chartered Institute of Personnel and Development we are witnessing “a tectonic shift in the underlying structure of the labour market”.

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By 2017 the number of public sector workers will have declined from a peak of 6.3m in 2009 to 4.9m, the lowest level since comparable records began in 1999. What explains this dramatic cull? Fiscal considerations, naturally, play their part. The deficit is forecast to be £126bn this year [£10bn higher than originally expected] and Osborne wrongly believes that slashing the state is the best way to reduce it. In an inversion of Keynes, he thinks that if you take care of the deficit, unemployment will take care of itself. But Osborne, who is both Chancellor and the Tories’ chief electoral strategist, also has political considerations in mind. The Spectator’s James Forsyth quotes one senior Conservative thus: “You create a bigger private sector, you create more Tories.”

The polls certainly suggest as much. Data from Ipsos MORI shows that while Labour enjoys a 28-point lead among public sector workers, it trails the Tories by six points among their private sector counterparts [see graph].

Logic says that if you reduce the former group and expand the latter [the OBR forecasts an extra 1.7 million private sector workers by 2017] , the Tories will benefit. A smaller public sector means fewer people with a vested interest in high levels of state spending. Even if the private sector fails to pick up the slack, studies show that the unemployed are among the least likely groups to vote. Putting Labour voters on the dole is win-win for the Tories. Osborne may claim that his cuts are born of necessity, rather than ideology, but be in no doubt about the political nature of his project.

George Osborne plans to cut 730,000 public sector jobs between 2011 and 2017. Photograph: Getty Images.

George Eaton is political editor of the New Statesman.

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The dog at the end of the lead may be small, but in fact what I’m walking is a hound of love

There is a new, hairy face in the Hovel.

There is a new, hairy face in the Hovel. I seem to have become a temporary co-owner of an enthusiastic Chorkie. A Chorkie, in case you’re not quite up to speed with your canine crossbreeds, is a mixture of a chihuahua and a Yorkshire Terrier, and while my friend K— busies herself elsewhere I am looking after this hound.

This falls squarely into the category of Things I Never Thought I’d Do. I’m a cat person, taking my cue from their idleness, cruelty and beauty. Dogs, with their loyalty, their enthusiasm and their barking, are all a little too much for me, even after the first drink of the day. But the dog is here, and I am in loco parentis, and it is up to me to make sure that she is looked after and entertained, and that there is no repetition of the unfortunate accident that occurred outside my housemate’s room, and which needed several tissues and a little poo baggie to make good.

As it is, the dog thinks I am the bee’s knees. To give you an idea of how beeskneesian it finds me, it is licking my feet as I write. “All right,” I feel like saying to her, “you don’t have to go that far.”

But it’s quite nice to be worshipped like this, I have decided. She has also fallen in love with the Hovel, and literally writhes with delight at the stinky cushions on the sofa. Named after Trude Fleischmann, the lesbian erotic photographer of the Twenties, Thirties and Forties, she has decided, with admirable open-mindedness, that I am the Leader of the Pack. When I take the lead, K— gets a little vexed.

“She’s walking on a loose lead, with you,” K— says. “She never does that when I’m walking her.” I don’t even know what that means, until I have a think and work it out.

“She’s also walking to heel with you,” K— adds, and once again I have to join a couple of mental dots before the mists part. It would appear that when it comes to dogs, I have a natural competence and authority, qualities I had never, not even in my most deranged flights of self-love, considered myself to possess in any measurable quantity at all.

And golly, does having a dog change the relationship the British urban flâneur has with the rest of society. The British, especially those living south of Watford, and above all those in London, do not recognise other people’s existence unless they want to buy something off them or stop them standing on the left of the sodding escalator, you idiot. This all changes when you have a dog with you. You are now fair game for any dog-fancier to come up to you and ask the most personal questions about the dog’s history and genealogy. They don’t even have to have a dog of their own; but if you do, you are obliged by law to stop and exchange dog facts.

My knowledge of dog facts is scant, extending not much further beyond them having a leg at each corner and chasing squirrels, so I leave the talking to K—, who, being a friendly sort who could probably talk dog all day long if pressed, is quite happy to do that. I look meanwhile in a kind of blank wonder at whichever brand of dog we’ve just encountered, and marvel not only at the incredible diversity of dog that abounds in the world, but at a realisation that had hitherto escaped me: almost half of London seems to have one.

And here’s the really interesting thing. When I have the leash, the city looks at me another way. And, specifically, the young women of the city. Having reached the age when one ceases to be visible to any member of the opposite sex under 30, I find, all of a sudden, that I exist again. Women of improbable beauty look at Trude, who looks far more Yorkie than chihuahua, apart from when she does that thing with the ears, and then look at me, and smile unguardedly and unironically, signalling to me that they have decided I am a Good Thing and would, were their schedules not preventing them, like to chat and get to know me and the dog a bit better.

I wonder at first if I am imagining this. I mention it to K—.

“Oh yes,” she says, “it’s a thing. My friend P-J regularly borrows her when he wants to get laid. He reckons he’s had about 12 shags thanks to her in the last six months. The problems only arise when they come back again and notice the dog isn’t there.”

I do the maths. Twelve in six months! That’s one a fortnight. An idea begins to form in my mind. I suppose you don’t have to be a rocket scientist to work out what it is. But no. I couldn’t. Could I?

Nicholas Lezard is a literary critic for the Guardian and also writes for the Independent. He writes the Down and Out in London column for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 28 April 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The new fascism